Rest, Sad Eyes
glee_angst_meme: Prompt: Okay so that line just hit me and I've been thinking, what if he really does answer the phone that way sometimes? I'm thinking that his grandmother has dementia or alzheimers. And sometimes she calls the Hummel house asking about things like how baby Kurt is, how the budding garage is going, all that. Half of the time Kurt says 'No, she's dead this is her son.' and the other half he just caves and talks to his grandma like he is his mother because he doesn't want to break her heart.
It could either be about the actual phone calls or someone figuring it out.
TL;DR: Kurt's grandmother has dementia and thinks he's his mother.
It was exactly 12:34 AM when the trilling telephone broke the silence of the slumbering Hudmel household. Burt, who had learned to wake up at the clash of brick on glass or the screech of tires, groped reflexively for his night stand before it could wake up Carole. His heart was already racing in his chest, before the part of him that knew Kurt was sound asleep (with Finn and all of Finn's metal baseball bats) regained consciousness.
"Sissy, sis sis sis. I neeeeeeeeeeed you. I need you and e'rything hurrrz zo much. Sniffle."
Goddamn Mildred. Crazy ass muff diving sister-in-law who probably gave Kurt the cocksucker gene.
He was set to unapologetically hang up on her slurred words- she was clearly drunk dialing. Burt really wished that Kurt hadn't had the foresight to write their land line on Mildred's wedding invitation (which had gone to waste anyway). Before he could tell her off, another voice joined the line, and he had to catch his breath.
"Milly. Remember that talk we had about phone ettiquette?"
It was his wife, his love, but not his life, not the one who was curled up into the pillow without his body next to hers.
"After midnight, all bets are off. Erryone should get their beauty rest," Mildred recited dutifully, her words sharpening with the ease of practice. "And you'll take me off the family tree yourself if you can carry groceries under your eyes."
There was that warm and relaxed laugh that reminded him of the first time he saw her hair in the sun.
"You made up the second part, but I'm glad you do know better, shots of vodka notwithstanding. Is it that no-good trollop getting you down? I swear I'll cut the bitch if she plays with your heart."
"She'z za hot trollop, but she's away away until Tuesday. I can't sleep wifout her, I neeeed her but I can't because she's doing this to step on people and get to the top. She's hot in a power suit, did you know?"
Another chuckle. "I wouldn't know. I don't want to know."
"You have no taste." Mildred blew out a giant sigh. "At least your kid's beautiful. He's sooo cute when he's scared of me."
Burt resisted the urge to snort at her words; he had at this point decided that he was dreaming.
"Can you blame him? You come off very strongly. I do wish you'd switch to brand fragrances."
There was a slightly drawn out pause where Burt strained to catch the unbelievably steady rhythm of her breathing over the obnoxious sound effects of Mildred aggressively blowing her snot into a tissue, hopefully a tissue and not her sleeve, not that Burt would put it past her.
"Sing to me. The way you do wif your baby boy." Mildred crooned a series of please and thank you's.
"Hmm, no, I don't think so. Goodnight Milly."
"Mean! Please please please I'll never call this early again except New Years and your birthday and fire."
"Hah! Likely story. If I do this for you, you will not call at any hour past sundown. You will not wake up my fa... family."
Mildred murmured out a suitably humble agreement, and Burt was glad the phone was cordless, otherwise he would have wound coils and coils around his fist until something snapped. He might have filled his quota of crazy ass sister-in-laws at the funeral, but he was absurdly thankful that Mildred had called, as his wife's song rose out of the grave and nestled around his heart, digging in like nettles and thorns.
\Sleep is a reconciling, a rest that Peace begets. Doth not the sun rise smiling when fair at e'en he sets.\
He knew every note and every pause and stretch and lift of the lyrics. She had played piano and sang sweetly in a school play that he had largely slept through except for the parts where he glared at her co-star with maybe a little jealousy. Her stint in the play had been the only time he'd listen to the whole tune in full.
On their wedding anniversary before she carried his child, he had taken her to an opera house and proceeded to snooze well before the fat lady sang. He had woken up when the song played because her voice was in his ear, and he had reached for her in the dark of the auditorium and brushed the tears off her cheek with his rough thumb.
She had crooned it to Kurt, and Burt pictured her rocking their boy in the chair with her tank top slipping down her chest.
He had never thought to ask her why she'd never sang the words to Kurt. As Burt listened, he understood why.
\Rest you then, rest, sad eyes. Melt not in weeping while she lies sleeping.\
\Softly, softly, now softly, softly lies sleeping\
He was oddly grateful to crazy ass Mildred for being an ugly-sounding crier because it also meant she was even uglier-sounding when she dozed off, bad enough to cover up his man tears. He was too choked up to even say her name or say goodbye or beg her to keep going. It had been like this at her bedside. The line went flat before he could process the fact that she was gone.
Burt let the phone drop to the carpet when Carole's arm snaked around his waist and her wedding ring dug into his belly, a little. It was just a bad dream, from the snack-sized bag of pork rinds he'd sneaked close to bed time. No more for him, not if pork rinds made you hear angels.
With much relief and determination, Burt nuzzled into Carole's warmth, Carole's smell and the heebie jeebies gradually leeched out of him.
A small click issued from the phone when Kurt brushed the tears off of his pink cheeks and hung up. He would need to put cucumber slices on them first thing after the morning cleanse and then instill moisturizing eye drops before his usual skin regimen.
And figure out what to do when Aunt Mildred called his mom back.
A/N: I don't own Glee. Patrick Doyle owns "Weep You No More Sad Fountains."